


That, My Friend, Is a Lion

by doomcanary



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, F/M, bringing the naughty to Narnia, did i mention crack, utter crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:38:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a depressed, alcoholic Musketeer ends up in a strangely familiar place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Endgame](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618640) by [breathtaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken). 



Athos stares quizzically up at the object before him. For some reason, someone has made a lantern out of iron, and placed it at a ridiculous height on a long black pole. There is a peg sticking out on one side beneath it, as if some giant might wish to hang its hat. He takes another swig from the bottle in his hand and kicks at the base of the pole with a desultory foot. Metal too. What a waste of good swords.

When the goat-creature appears from the woods behind him his sword is at its throat before it can take two steps. It shrieks, and passes out on the spot.

Athos is not, on the whole, enormously impressed with this dream.

*

The beast is mere feet from Queen Susan. It snorts, breath thick on the morning air, lowers its horned head and steps closer. Her heart pounds, her bow hand trembles. Her quiver is hanging empty at her back. And then there is a dull _tchk_ and the minotaur falls, blood springing in a rosette onto its charcoal-skinned chest. Lord Athos places his foot upon the beast's back, and withdraws his rapier with a scrape of metal against bone. The minotaur's breath gurgles and falls still.

“Your Majesty,” he acknowledges her. Nothing more than his duty as a soldier. And yet for a moment Susan is struck by his presence; he has true noble bearing, shoulders as straight as his rapier blade. His blue eyes pierce her through.

“Susan!” yells her brother, racing to her aid, and the moment is gone.

“I'm fine,” she tells Peter. “I'm fine.”

She's never felt less so.

Later that night, after the feasting is over, Athos takes her over the foot of her immense oaken bed. She shakes with the sheer presence of him, her body aching around his, complete in a way she had never known could be possible. Mere weeks later, she takes his hand in marriage. Perhaps she dreams it, but on their wedding night she thinks she remembers waking to find Athos gone; and going to her balcony to see him walking in the gardens below, an immense animal shape padding with measured steps by his side. In the morning, he is quieter than ever; but his face shines with gratitude and love for all mankind, and he kisses her so tenderly she feels like one of the holy relics of which he once spoke.

*

Narnia becomes a different place under the rule of their handsome children; the beasts never quite seem to be purged away, but edge in from the dark places and trouble their people ever and again. But young Charles has his father's gift for swordsmanship, and Constance grows into as shrewd and determined a woman as Susan could ever have wished her daughter to be. There comes a day when an old, familiar shape breaks the morning light that floods into their chamber; and as they walk with Aslan into the woods, which slowly become snowy and silent, Susan squeezes Athos's hand. His eyes are still so blue, even framed as they are now by tired folds of skin and silver hair.

“I never thought to have a life as happy as this one, Susan,” he says to her.

“Nor I,” is all she can find in her heart to reply.

They part ways under the lamp-post, with a long embrace and a gentle, loving kiss. The lion watches them go with unfathomable golden eyes.

 


	2. Lie Down with the Lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan go looking for their brother, and find something odd.

The door gives way at last under their combined weight, sending Porthos staggering into the room. Aramis only saves his balance by hanging onto the doorframe.

“Athos?” calls d'Artagnan, looking around.

“He ain't here,” says Porthos.

“The door was locked and bolted and he's not here? Check the window.”

“Shutters are latched from the inside.”

“Well he's got to be here somewhere, then -”

Porthos looks under the bed. It's d'Artagnan who discovers the armoire won't open more than half an inch.

“Porthos,” says Aramis tersely. “Knife.”

Porthos holds out his main gauche.

“No,” says Aramis. “The _useful_ knife.”

Porthos nods, and produces from his boot a slender dagger with a blade so flat and pristinely sharp d'Artagnan feels his fingers clench as if to avoid being cut by it even though he's two feet away. Aramis slips it into the gap between the armoire doors, and makes short work of whatever is holding them closed. Shreds of hemp rope fall to the floor as the doors swing open.

All three of them stare at the tableau of blankets, pillow and empty bottles inside the armoire.

“He ain't here either,” says Porthos eventually.

“You don't say.”

They spend a while searching the room, looking for clues. D'Artagnan gives up, and sits down between the armoire's open doors. His weight bends the wood, and the doors swing to, bouncing gently off his thighs. He sighs and flops back against the armoire's rear wall – and yelps when he fails to encounter it, sprawling onto his back.

“Told you to look out for broken glass,” grunts Porthos.

“Guys,” says d'Artagnan. “Did you know Athos owns several very strange-looking fur doublets?”

Silence falls in the room as the other two still.

“No, I can't say I did,” says Aramis.

“And I tell you something else,” says d'Artagnan. “There's a breeze in here. And it smells like pine wood.”

 

“I can't believe we're doing this,” says Porthos, as the three of them crowd into the massive armoire.

“Think about Athos,” Aramis reprimands.

“If it's a secret passage, I think it only opens when the doors are nearly closed,” says d'Artagnan. “Porthos, can you -”

With Porthos's bulk in there the doors won't close at all, but they come close enough that the light dims – and yes, there it is, a scent of fresh air and pine.

“The back wall's gone again,” says d'Artagnan.

“That's the quietest door I've ever heard,” says Porthos.

“Quiet yourself,” says Aramis. “We don't know what we're going to find.”

Pothos's jaw sets and they step forward into the dark.

When they realise they're no longer pushing through old cloth and furs but leaves, and that there are pine needles under their feet, indeed hints of snow and a dim light coming from ahead, the three stop and exchange a very uncomfortable glance.

“This is not right,” says Porthos under his breath.

“No,” agrees Aramis. “But it's where Athos has gone.”

“So we're following.” D'Artagnan turns, and makes as if to go further in. Aramis grabs his arm.

“There's snow on the ground and we're apparently in a forest. Whether or not the forest's inside a wall, we're not going after him without supplies.”

D'Artagnan looks mulish, but assents after a moment.

“We won't get horses through that armoire,” Porthos opines as they shove their way back towards the dark and musty layer of furs.

“Well then it's a good job Athos was on foot as well,” Aramis replies.

 

*

 

“Maybe we're on one of His Majesty's estates,” suggests Aramis, looking up at the immense black lantern on its pole. “Looks like Louis's sort of idea.”

“I've never seen anything like that at the Louvre,” says d'Artagnan. “It's an ugly great thing.”

“Why just one?” asks Porthos. “And where's the path? What's it meant to be lighting?”

“Look atthis,” says d'Artagnan, kicking aside the snow at the lantern's base. “Broken glass. And wine stains.”

There is indeed glass and flecks of purple among the snow.

“He was here,” says Aramis. “Spread out, and look for tracks.”

“It is meant to be lighting the way, sons of Adam,” comes a rumbling voice from behind.

All three of them have their swords out by the time they've turned.

“What,” says Porthos, “in God's name is that?”

“It's a lion,” mutters d'Artagnan. “I saw one in a private collection once.”

“Was it as big as that one?” says Porthos.

D'Artagnan swallows. “No.”

“Show yourself,” shouts Aramis into the trees. “Face us like a man!”

“Why should I do that,” says the beast, “when I am a lion?”

“Did the one you saw talk, d'Artagnan?”

“Also no.”

“Please tell me someone brought a bottle of Athos's good stuff,” Aramis pleads.

 

*

 

“Put up your swords, my friends. You have no need to fear.”

“We'll be the judge of that, if you don't mind,” says Porthos, eyeing the lion's vast paws warily.

“I will not attack you.”

Strangely it's Aramis who relaxes first. D'Artagnan follows suit, and eventually Porthos does too. They're far enough out of their depth that there's no saying what's the right thing to do, he decides.

“We're looking for our companion,” d'Artagnan tells the lion. “His name's Athos.”

“He has passed this way recently,” says the lion.

“Is he alive?”

“As I said,” replies the beast, with a displeased growl gathering under its voice, “I will not attack you. You have no need to fear.”

“We are soldiers,” says Aramis apologetically. “Caution is our way.”

 _Why the hell are we apologising to a lion_ , Porthos asks himself.

The lion watches them for a moment.

“It appears you have seen little of the wonder in the world,” it says.

“Indeed,” says Aramis. “But much of the pain. As has our brother Athos, and hence our concern for him.”

The lion pads around the edge of the clearing, and follows a narrow track between the trees. The three of them exchange glances, shrug, and follow along.

The winter day is darkening by the time the lion brings them to a halt. There is an immense tree here whose branches start some feet above the ground, leaving a patch of bare needles without snow beneath.

“Rest here,” says the lion. “Sustenance will come to you.” It disappears into the gathering dark.

A few minutes later a lamb wanders out of the trees. Porthos frowns, d'Artagnan blinks, and Aramis shoots it squarely between the eyes.

“Well get a fire going, then,” says d'Artagnan to Porthos.

As they are dozing contentedly round the flickering hearth, bellies pleasantly full of meat, d'Artagnan rouses suddenly at a glimmer of light. The other two start to attention themselves, following his gaze.

On the other side of the clearing is the stripped-out carcass of the lamb. A shaft of moonlight seems to illuminate it – and there, out of the night, comes the lion padding again. D'Artagnan, remembering the moth-eaten, skinny beast from the zoo, expects it to fall upon the bones and drag them away to its den to chew. He is startled when instead it lies down, curled protectively around the dead lamb, and turns its head to lick at the carcass as a doe might tend to her fawn. Something seems to happen, hidden behind the shaggy mane; the carcass seems to change shape, glimmers of white – clean bone? - show in the moonlight.

And then all three of them start and curse as the lamb skips to its feet, and shakes its head.

 

*

 

“Impossible,” says d'Artagnan in disbelief.

“There ain't no such thing as miracles,” mutters Porthos back to him. He brightens. “Look on the bright side, though, at least we get to eat it again.”

At this the lion unleashes a full-throated roar and leaps across the space between them; as d'Artagnan fumbles for his pistol it bears Porthos to the ground, snarling into his face. D'Artagnan's finger is on the trigger, but the lion makes no move to attack Porthos further, simply baring its teeth and waiting – for Porthos himself, it appears.

“All right, all right,” says Porthos, raising the palms of his hands as best he can beneath the lion's weight. “Greed. Deadly sin. I get it, it was just a joke, okay?”

D'Artagnan could swear the lion looks disgusted as it shoves itself off him and returns to nose protectively at the lamb.

Aramis is looking at the lamb itself, and touching the Queen's crucifix where it hangs at his neck with a wondering hand.

 

In the morning the lion is waiting for them again.

“Athos has found happiness here,” it says. “I do not believe he would wish to leave this place.”

D'Artagnan is on his feet in a second, sword in hand.

“Liar!” he shouts. “You've done something with him. We demand to see him for ourselves.” His face is ugly, twisted, and Aramis knows jealousy when he sees it.

“D'Artagnan -” he begins, but it's too late; the lion charges the boy, and all three of them are running ; d'Artagnan for his life, himself and Porthos to keep up with the beast. Aramis sprints to but a few feet behind it and lets fly with his pistol squarely into its side; blood erupts, the lion twists, and a vast, stone-heavy paw knocks him senseless to the ground.

 

When he wakes, the lamb is lying opposite him, watching him with a sheep's strange eyes. It bleats, as if announcing his awareness. And there – he knew it – is the soft heavy tread of the lion once again.

“Are they all right?” he asks, without turning.

“They are well, son of Eve,” the lion's voice says. “They have returned to their own place and time.”

“I'm sorry,” says Aramis. “They're – we -”

“There is no need.”

Now Aramis turns and sits up, and finds the lion lying on a low mound a few feet away.

“I never thought to see something like this,” he says simply.

“You,” says the lion, “are the only one who could see me for what I am.”

“Which is why I'm the only one who gets to stay.”

“I do not think you need to stay here, Aramis,” says the lion. “Nor, I think, will you want to in the end. But I will take you to see your companion, if you desire.”

“More than anything,” says Aramis instantly.

And so it is that he walks in a forest of satyrs and fauns with his hand in a lion's rough tawny mane, and feels himself closer to redemption than he has ever been.

 

They come at length to the edge of a garden; and there in the distance is a familiar figure, hat set askew as it always is, playing a game of croquet on a wide lawn. Aramis takes in a breath and his hand clenches in the lion's mane; the beast leans into his side, as if offering comfort.

Athos's opponent is a lady in a rich gown, who wears a golden circlet upon her head. She is a demon at the game, giving no quarter; but Athos would want none, and accepts his loss with good grace when it inevitably comes. And then he takes her by both hands, draws her to him, and kisses her with a simple honesty that makes Aramis's knees fall weak. He leans instinctively on the lion for support.

“Do you wish to speak to him?” asks the beast gently.

“No,” says Aramis. “No, I would not disturb this.” He allows himself to drop to his knees, and buries his face in the lion's mane, wetness prickling at his eyes.

“Thankyou,” he says. “Thankyou for giving this to him.”

An immense paw lifts to his shoulder and holds him away.

“Thank me by taking care of your brothers, until Athos returns,” says the miracle who has led him here.

“He will return to us?”

“When it is time.”

Aramis drops his head. “Then I have all I could ever want, and more,” he says. The lion licks a rough stripe into his hair, and forever after when the sun catches that particular lock it has a lush and golden sheen. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he wakes, it's an iron post leaning into his side.

 

He stumbles out of the armoire a mere few seconds after Porthos and d'Artagnan came back into the room; they are still in a heated discussion about what to do.

“Aramis!” Porthos envelops him in a hug that makes his ribs creak. D'Artagnan's hands come to his shoulders, the boy's narrow body pressed close aganst his back.

“It's OK,” says Aramis. “It's OK. I saw Athos. He really is all right. He – he's happy. Happier than I've ever seen him here.”

“So we've lost him, then?” says Porthos, his eyes anguished.

“No,” says Aramis. “No. Not even that. He'll come back. We just have to give him time.”

Porthos looks into his lover's eyes, and the sincerity there is enough for him.

They are still asleep, curled together on the bed on the mess of blankets taken from the armoire, when Athos steps out of it in the rays of the dying sun.

 


	3. Coda

Athos is so long going to fetch his cloak that Aramis starts to wonder if he's fallen back through the secret door in his armoire, and makes a quip to that effect.

"What?" says Porthos blankly. 

"You've got a good imagination," grins d'Artagnan. "I just thought he'd stopped for a piss."

Aramis loks at them sharply; their faces are completely open.

"You remember," he says. "That time we broke into Athos's rooms and couldn't find him, except for all the blankets in the armoire."

"And then woke up four hours later to find him in his street clothes, standing over us asking what the hell we thought we were doing in his rooms, yes."

"He'd just been out, then?" asks Aramis experimentally.

"Yes, you remember, he'd got drunk the night before - he climbed out of the window to avoid his landlady while he went to get more wine, and then forgot he'd been going to come back," d'Artagnan reminds him.

Aramis looks away, a private pang twisting at his heart. They've forgotten.

Sometimes he thinks he himself is forgetting; the golden eyes of the lion swim hazily in his dreams at night, but in the light of day he can no longer remember what it felt like to touch that thick harsh fur, to bury his face in... had he even done that? Had he ever been so unmanned as to embrace a lion?

His heart twists again; he knows he is growing away from that world, and understands.

*

Athos watches Aramis keenly after they return. Once, a few weeks later, he half tries to talk to Athos about what he'd seen, but they are interrupted by a fight breaking out in the street across from them. By the time it's over, Aramis seems to have forgotten it was ever on his mind. Athos knows Porthos and d'Artagnan believe now that he had merely been drunk and asleep somewhere; Aramis has never said anything to contradict them, but in the first weeks after the incident, the weeks that led up to that halted attempt to talk, he had been throwing Athos looks that said he understood more than he had told.

It is a year and a half, perhaps two years later; d'Artagnan is with Constance and they are playing cards, waiting for Porthos's watch to end. Aramis leans across the table to pick up and shuffle the discards and his shirt falls open; a heavy gold chain hangs there, in place of the finer one that Queen Anne's cross depended from. 

"You've changed your crucifix,"  Athos says neutrally.

"Yes," says Aramis. He withdraws it: it is far plainer than Anne's, but made of the finest gold. It is simply made in the botonné style; each of the three buds at the end of each arm bears an amber-yellow topaz. At the crux like a shield boss a lion's mask is carved, two more  of the golden gems forming its eyes.

"That's not like you," says Athos.

"I know," replies Aramis. "I still have the one Anne gave me, but... it was time for a change. I don't want to wear that one every day any more."

Athos nods quietly. They have all moved on since that time.

"And when I went to the jeweller, this was lying there waiting for me."

"Why a lion?" He is giving Aramis that chance, to finally talk.

Aramis looks down at the cross; he opens his mouth readily, but a shadow flickers across his eyes.

"I don't know," he says at last. "There's just... something about it. Something right. Don't you think?" 

So he too has forgotten, then.

"Yes," says Athos. "I do. It's perfect for you."

The tender, grateful smile Aramis gives him reminds him painfully of Susan. He is deeply glad that Aramis should be so happy, still finds it hard to believe that part of that happiness depends on him. And yet he still remembers Susan too. He looks down and squeezes his brother's warm hand as the tears sting his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never liked how squeaky-clean Narnia is. And the part where Susan gives up on it because she's more interested in Lipstick and Nylons and Boys - well stuff *that* for religion as a guide to live your whole life by. I can't help thinking a real soldier would have a slightly more pragmatc approach.
> 
> If anyone else would like to pick up this crossover 'verse and write more in it, you are VERY welcome. Just post a link in comments so I can read :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [His Queen of Faerie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623365) by [akathecentimetre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre/pseuds/akathecentimetre)




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